


Even a Small Love

by corvidae (MeMeMe)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage of Convenience, Sick Character, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14321526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeMeMe/pseuds/corvidae
Summary: After the war that sundered her family and tore her homeland apart, Sansa had thought a loveless marriage to a near-stranger a small price to pay for her honor, her safety, and, above all, Winterfell. Over a year later, she begins to wonder if that's really all she wants out of life.Then her husband falls ill.





	1. Wednesday

Sansa startled, spilling her tea. It wasn’t that the cough had been loud, precisely; it was more that Jon had been so quiet and his presence so unobtrusive throughout breakfast that she had nearly forgotten she wasn’t alone. Jolted from this solitary feeling, she saw now that Jon was rubbing at his throat with one hand. 

“Are you quite well?” Now she’d heard how ungentle her voice sounded, she wished she could say it differently-- she sounded cross, a nagging wife, and though to all the land she had every right to play that role, she knew herself to be something rather less. At least she had managed to prevent the  _ my lord  _ that threatened to slip out; Jon cringed every time she called him by the honorific, but it was proving a difficult habit to break.

“Fine,” Jon said hastily, hand dropping from his throat as though burned. “Swallowed wrong, is all.”

Sansa ducked her head in a nod of acknowledgement, but peered through her lashes at him as she blotted the spilled tea with her napkin. He looked pale and morose, but he had a Northern complexion and a Northern disposition, so she couldn’t draw any sure conclusions.

Jon downed the last of his coffee in one gulp as he stood from the table. “I’ve a meeting with Sam,” he said, by way of excusing himself. “Tollett is readying the car.”

“Will Maester Tarly be joining us for luncheon? I’ll ask Cook to lay an extra place.” 

The corner of Jon’s mouth pulled downward. “Our meeting is at the Citadel. It is improbable I will be back before supper, if then.”

Sansa gazed up at him, fighting a frown of her own. “All right. I’ll see you this evening, then.”

“If I’m back before you go up,” he allowed grudgingly, looking awkward and desperate to flee the dining room. 

Sansa forced a smile as he left, thinking sadly of the way her father had always kissed her mother’s cheek in farewell. She supposed she’d never have her mother’s marriage and never know that kind of love. 

Another day to herself. She sighed. Perhaps she would call on Jeyne. It was better than rattling around an empty house, making the servants uncomfortable.

The wind was bitterly cold as she made her way across to the Pooles’ portion of the estate, and she shivered under her heavy woolen coat. She thought of Jon on the long drive to the drafty Citadel, and hoped he’d thought to wear a scarf. 

“Come, come, sit by the fire or you’ll catch your death!” Jeyne pulled her inside, squealing. Sansa’s spirits lifted immediately. 

“Please forgive the intrusion,” Sansa said, pulling her gloves off finger by finger. “Lord Snow is away on business for the day, and I couldn't stomach another cold luncheon on my own.” She kissed Jeyne’s face first on one side, then the other. Cold cheek pressed to Jeyne’s warm one, she felt like a girl again, the presence of an old friend allowing her a rare opportunity to be the carefree person she had once been. Perhaps this was an odd thought to have when she lived alongside someone else she had known since childhood, but Jon was something different to her than Jeyne, and there had been no easy intimacy between them to reprise upon their reunion. He had been kind but distant in the nursery, and he was kind but distant in their marriage, too.

Jeyne was not distant. “It's no intrusion at all. It's a pleasure. You've an announcement to make, I expect.” Taking Sansa’s chilled fingers in her own, she led her to a cozy green armchair in the parlor. “I’ll have tea brought up,” she promised, ringing a bell. She settled herself on the chair opposite Sansa, a bright smile on her face. “You look so radiant with that glow on your cheeks.”

There had been a time when such compliments had been a regular occurrence for Sansa, but since the war, with a taciturn half-stranger as her husband, she lived practically in isolation like an old maid.

“When you married, I feared you’d not have time for me now you’ve a house and husband,” Jeyne babbled. “I am so grateful to be a part of your new family.”

Sansa felt unwanted tears collecting in her eyes. She didn’t feel like she had much of a family these days. The war had taken that from her, probably permanently. “I’ll always have time for you,” she promised, or maybe begged.

Jeyne smiled sweetly, leaning forward to lay her hand atop Sansa’s. “You’ll have less time soon, but I’ll understand. We’ve had longer than I’d thought-- I was starting to worry. How long will it be, then? Half a year at least, you’re as slim as ever. All those luncheons you can’t stomach, I suppose.” 

Sansa felt a crease forming between her eyebrows. “Jeyne, I’m afraid--”

_ You’ve misunderstood _ , she intended to say, but was cut off when a maid entered with a tea tray. Her habit had never been to be over-familiar before servants, and truth to tell she was embarrassed. 

“Every woman is afraid with her first,” Jeyne said reassuringly. “At least, that’s what Mama says. But you’ll find your courage soon enough.” She raised her teacup. “To the next heir of Winterfell.”

Sansa put her face in her hands and began to sob.

Alarmed, Jeyne dismissed the maid and came around to wrap her arms around Sansa’s shoulders. “Don’t cry, sweetling. You’ll be a wonderful mother.”

She shook her head. “Not any time soon.”

“Oh, of course you will. Don’t you want a sweet babe of your own?”

She would have loved to have children, who would love her and keep her company. But… “It’s not possible.” For there to be children, more had to pass between the lord and lady than polite nods, and this aspect of their marital relationship had yet to materialise. 

Jeyne looked stricken. “My dear, I had no idea. Have you and Lord Snow gotten a doctor involved?”

Sansa felt a hot flush come over her cheeks. “We haven’t… that is, we haven’t been trying.”

“Not at all?” Jeyne asked, aghast. “You mean, you’re…”

“A maiden yet, yes,” Sansa laughed thickly through her tears. “It is a marriage in name only. At first, I thought… but I don’t believe there will be another Stark in Winterfell, not now.” 

“Why the blazes not? You’re both young yet. And he’s ever so handsome.”

Jon was attractive enough, she supposed. That wasn’t what kept them stuck at parting ways in the hall outside their respective bedchambers. “He’s so often away.” They’ve barely had a chance to speak to one another, let alone... other things.

“Do you think he has taken a mistress?” Jeyne asked, looking scandalised.

The thought hadn’t occurred to Sansa. “He wouldn’t dishonor me in that way,” she said slowly. She believed it. Jon Targaryen was an honorable man; it was part of why she had agreed to the new queen’s request.

Of course, part of the bargain had been that her children would retain control of her ancestral lands, which could never come true if her husband never touched her.

“There simply hasn’t been time for us to…” Sansa looked down at her still-steaming cup of tea. 

“You’ve been married more than a year!” Jeyne scowled. “He must do his duty by you. You’re his lady wife. It isn’t right.”

Sansa turned to look out the parlor window. The cold grey skies matched her husband’s eyes and her soul. “I don’t want to force him. He didn’t have much choice in wife.” She shook her head, hard, to force the bad thoughts from her head. “I’m sorry. I oughtn’t break down like this. I really don’t mind. It’s a bit lonely, is all.”

“Too right you’re lonely,” said Jeyne hotly. “It’s not a true marriage if he’s denying you marital obligations. You could have an annulment, you know.”

“I don’t want one,” Sansa replied softly, surprising herself with the truth of it. If they separated, she could lose her home and security, and Jon’s wardship of the North would be in jeopardy. She might be forced to marry someone much worse. It was too great a cost for no guarantee of increased happiness. She only wished things could be different.

The rest of their tea was subdued; although they did their best to talk of other things, the dark revelation about Sansa’s unhappy marriage cast a pall over their usual cheer with one another. When the time came for her to head home, Jeyne hugged her extra fiercely. 

“I’m always here,” Jeyne said, and Sansa nodded, though she knew it wasn’t true. Jeyne would marry herself one day, probably within two years, and move to her husband’s house and start her own family. Maybe, like Arya had done, she would start a new life far away with someone she loved. Sansa would not and could not begrudge anyone those things simply because she herself had not been so lucky.

She trudged back to the main house, finding it calm and quiet in the absence of her husband. What a relief it would be to find someone there who loved her, as in the days before the war.

As she had suspected, Jon did not return home before she retired to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think a Downton Abbey-ish period for this world. I'll get more into the world-building and power dynamics as the chapters go along, but this will predominantly be a story about Jon and Sansa learning to love each other.


	2. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although noticeably ill, Jon goes about estate business like the dutiful lord he is. Sansa does her best to be a dutiful wife to him.

The next morning, she couldn't bear the thought of another tense, silent breakfast, and asked her maid for a tray to be sent up. Her mother had hardly ever made use of this privilege, preferring to take her breakfast in the dining room with the children, and Sansa had grown accustomed to the idea of the lady of the house taking breakfast in the dining room-- she hadn't known that this behavior was not universal until she had become acquainted with Cersei Lannister. Sansa wished to avoid any connection with that particular lady, but today she hadn't the will to comport herself as her mother would have. Perhaps tomorrow. 

“Thank you, Mya. I do hope it wasn't too much trouble.” Sansa felt ashamed, propped up in bed with food brought up to her. 

“None at all, Your Ladyship,” Mya curtsied. “In fact, I passed Jory on the stairs. His Lordship had a tray sent up as well, so there wasn't any need to lay the table at all.”

Sansa frowned. It wasn't like Jon to take breakfast in his room. He was a habitual early riser and seemed to find the decadence of lying about somewhat repulsive.

“I believe he's a bit under the weather, my lady.” Mya volunteered, eyes kind and canny. 

Sansa averted her gaze. She couldn't have expected the lack of rapport between husband and wife to go unnoticed below stairs, but it was still humiliating to have it alluded to in this way. “He did mention that yesterday,” she lied. 

“Indeed, my lady.” Mya’s face was blank, but Sansa was certain the girl knew the truth of it. 

“That will be all, Mya. I'll ring when I'm ready to get dressed.”

Left alone, she picked at her porridge. She hoped Jon wasn’t terribly ill. But, no, he must not be; someone would have fetched her. She was his lady wife, after all. A slight chill only, in all likelihood. She would make sure the fires were kept extra well the next few days to ward off anything worse, and have the servants keep him supplied with licorice tea.

Once her hair had been arranged  and her creamy yellow day-dress buttoned over her stays, she headed down the stairs, feeling more cheerful than she had in months. It wasn’t altogether proper in a woman with a sick husband, but she couldn’t help it. She finally had an opportunity to be useful, and she was seizing it. She would give the staff her instructions on the care and keeping of Lord Snow, be a good and dutiful wife to him, and best of all she could do so without forcing him to spend any time in her company.

Her plan was dashed as soon as she rounded the landing and spied Jon in the foyer, dressed to go out.

“My lord!” she exclaimed, frozen in shock.

He turned to face her, looking up the staircase at her in a way that left her feeling exposed. “My lady,” he responded with a curt nod of his head, casting his eyes downward. There was no mistaking it now; where the day before she’d characterised him as pale and morose, today he looked wan and miserable.

She descended a few more steps. “I heard you were unwell.”

Jon suppressed a chuckle and the cough that followed. “Rumours of my ill health have been greatly exaggerated.”

Sansa pursed her lips. His complexion was scarcely darker than the shade of the title he carried. Had her father thought to leave the house looking like that, and on an icy day like this one, Catelyn Stark would have given him something else to think of. But, of course, she wasn’t to Jon Targaryen what her lady mother had been to Ned Stark.

“You’re going out.” She said instead.

He averted his gaze, his eyes lingering on her hand as it trailed over the dark wood of the bannister. “I’ve had an urgent telegram from Mance Rayder. There’s some kind of problem with the fence on the north boundary of the property, and I’m to come at once.”

She felt a surge of warmth in her belly. While many liege-lords might have delegated such a task, going himself was precisely what her father would have done. There was a sweetness to having his successor behave in so similarly dedicated a manner. She drew nearer, stopping only two stairs above the floor, so close to Jon she could have touched him. “Be careful,” she breathed, looking down on his dark curls with an unaccustomed fondness. “Keep yourself warm.”

Jon must have heard something in her voice, for he glanced up to her face at last, dark eyes unreadable. His lips twitched into an almost-smile. “I promise, my lady.” He laid his hand atop the one of hers he had been watching. “Sansa.”

The warmth of his hand on hers stunned the breath out of her. She laughed nervously. “Wouldn’t want you catching a chill, would we, my lord?”

Too late, she remembered he didn’t like that; within the next instant, he had withdrawn his hand and was frowning again. “No, I suppose not,” he muttered darkly, turning away.

Sansa hurried down the last two steps into the foyer, catching the sleeve of his coat before he disappeared out the door. “I’m sorry, Jon. I--”

He put up a hand to stop her. “Please. It’s all right.” He lifted her hand from his arm, paused a moment before letting it go. “I’ll be home soon,” he said softly.

She nodded. “I'll be waiting.” 

Jon stifled one last cough as he walked out the door. 

Sansa clung to the banister as she watched him go. 

The early morning greyness became an afternoon haze. It was one of those days where the temperature never rose but instead dropped steadily over the hours. Winterfell was well-built and well-insulated, but each time Sansa passed a window she felt the escalating chill.

“Lay tea out in Lord Snow’s study,” she told Lew the footman. “I want it ready when he comes in. Bring a pot of honey and slices of lemon on the tray, please.” 

“Yes, my lady,” Lew bowed. 

Sansa turned back to the window, watching the approaching car. Jon had been gone hours longer than she'd thought; the fence situation must have been more dire than she'd realised. She would shepherd him straight to his study for a nice cup of hot tea. She hadn't liked his colour this morning, and she doubted he'd done himself any favours spending so much time out of doors in this weather. So like a man, she thought, to neglect one’s health in such a way.

The Jon she met at the door was a rumpled and visibly exhausted one with dirt under his nails. “You shouldn’t be standing out here,” he said, voice notably raspier than it had been hours before. “It’s much too cold.”

Sansa favoured him with a harshly appraising look, but he was so weary as to be indifferent to the irony of his warning. “Yes,” she agreed. “You must escort me inside at once.” She seized him by the elbow and guided him toward the door. Perhaps most concerning of all was the way he allowed himself to be led by her, a weakness in his body that she didn’t imagine he would display if he had any choice.

As they entered the foyer, he was overcome by a paroxysm of harsh and seemingly interminable coughing, sounding a great deal worse than the discreet coughs of that morning. Sansa found her hold on his arm shifting from accompaniment to support as he struggled for breath.

“There’s tea in your study, but I think perhaps I ought to have it brought to you in bed,” she said, brow creasing. 

Coughs finally abating, Jon straightened somewhat, reddened and out of breath. “That-- that might be wise.” This was worrisome. Jon Targaryen was not a man who took to his bed lightly. Still, after the exertion and exposure of this morning, the warmth and rest could only do him good.

“I’ll send Jory to you,” Sansa assured him, ushering him up the stairs. He waved her off, looking embarrassed, but still she hovered at the foot of the staircase as he pulled himself toward his bedroom, leaning heavily on the bannister. She really ought to have protested his departure this morning; she’d already known he was poorly. But it wouldn’t have done any good. She hadn’t the leverage necessary to affect his behavior, and he was damnably stubborn. 

Now that he was taking his tea in bed, Sansa went down to her solar and picked up her embroidery. She’d planned to supervise, but she’d never been invited to his bedroom, and it hardly seemed fair to impose when he felt so dreadful. He always seemed so uncomfortable in her presence, and he needed his rest. So she occupied herself with making tiny, even stitches in the handkerchief she was embellishing. 

She dined alone that evening, an asparagus and mushroom quenelle with a blancmange for pudding. Jon had likely been taken the same blancmange on his tray, although instead of the quenelle it was probable he’d received some kind of broth, suitable for invalids. It shouldn’t have been any different from the many suppers she’d eaten by herself since her marriage, but the household felt unusually subdued with the knowledge of Lord Snow ill upstairs.

Sansa waited as long as seemed reasonable, then retired to her bedroom, one wall over from the mysterious chamber inhabited by her mysterious husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's most of the set-up accomplished, at this point. From here on in, it starts getting real.


	3. Thursday, night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes in the night to find Jon's condition has worsened.

She awoke suddenly some time later, disoriented with the remnants of slumber. It had been a rare dreamless sleep, so now, blinking in the darkness, she wasn’t immediately certain what had woken her or why her heart was pounding terribly. Then her senses returned and she became aware of the sound of hacking coughs filtering through the wall behind her head.

Not a thought had passed through her head before she’d thrown her dressing gown over her nightdress, turned the flame in her lamp as high as it would go, and run from her room.

Jon’s chambers were already lit. Jory had arrived sooner than Sansa, and was helping His Lordship to a seated position. There was an open jar of camphor liniment on the table beside the bed. And still the horrible coughing wore on, bubbling forth from Jon’s mouth in an unwelcome addition to the quiet night.

Sansa stood self-consciously in the door, watching her husband gasp and choke while his manservant tended him. What could she truly do to help the situation? She pushed that thought aside. She was his lawful wife. A wife in name only, but that name counted for something still. She approached his bedside.

His eyes snapped to her. “Go back to bed,” he wheezed, “I’m alright.” The coughing was tapering off now, but his breathing still sounded heavy and unwholesome.

“You are not,” she retorted.

Jory glanced up at her, worry in his eyes even as his hands steadied his employer. “He’s burning, my lady.”

“I can hear you,” Jon grumbled, but he looked frightfully dazed and his eyes were half-closed. 

Sansa ignored him and pressed the back of her hand to his cheek, as her mother had done whenever one of the children were ill. Though he shivered under the bedclothes, no trace of the outdoor chill remained on his skin, which blazed as intensely as Gendry’s forge.

“Send for the doctor,” she told Jory.

Jon groaned under her touch, and she pulled back.

“At once,” she added.

Jory left the room, and Sansa hovered uncertainly by Jon’s bedside. He seemed to have faded into sleep now. Sleep did not seem to have brought him comfort, however; as she watched, he shifted and coughed without waking. 

“Shh,” she tried, straightening his coverlet. 

He showed no sign of hearing her.

After a few tense minutes, Jory returned. “I tried telephoning Dr. Tybald, my lady, but the line wasn't answered. Lew and Tollett have driven into town to fetch him now.”

“Thank you, Jory,” Sansa said distantly, gazing down at the flushed face of her husband. She missed the local doctor of her youth. She missed her mother. Catelyn Stark had always known what to do. Before the war, she'd always known her family would be taken care of. Even when Bran had had his accident, Luwin and Mother had cared for him competently. 

“My lady?”

She startled, brought back to the moment by Jory’s gentle voice. He was nearer to her than she'd remembered, carrying a chair from the dressing room. 

“I thought you might be more comfortable with a seat,” Jory offered, setting the chair easily at the side of his lord’s bed. 

Sansa sat. It gave her a sense of belonging. She gave Jory a tentative smile. “How very thoughtful.”

Jory looked at the floor, fresh color in his cheeks. “No trouble at all, my lady.”

She blinked away, suddenly embarrassed. Her eyes fixed on her husband, shivering in his bed. She hoped Tollett and Lew would be back soon with the doctor. She was useless at a sickbed, useless as a wife. Her long fingers tangled in her lap.

Jon groaned, in pain or from some nightmare, she could not tell. 

If the doctor wasn’t on his way, she would have to make do until he arrived. “Jory, will you fetch some cloths and cool water, please?”  Her mother had always laid cool compresses on fevered foreheads, and if it wasn’t a substitute for real medical attention, well, at least it was something.

“Right away, my lady,” Jory bowed.

The bowl of water he brought her was clear and cold, soothing to her hands as she wrung out a cloth to press to her husband’s brow. 

At the touch of the cloth, Jon’s eyes flew open. 

“My… Jon?” Sansa said, refraining at the last moment from calling him  _ my lord _ , but still unfamiliar with the intimacy of his given name in her mouth. 

He didn’t seem to notice, his eyes glassy and focused on something far beyond her sight. “Sansa,” he gasped, and dissolved at once into frantic coughing.

He seemed so distressed. Did he want her gone? She didn’t know him well enough to say. She licked her lips. 

“Sansa,” he panted again, and this time his hand moved to clutch at her hair, silky red strands filtered between large, strong fingers. 

Tentatively, she put her hand over his, disentangling his fingers. “Easy,” she said. “Rest.”

Whether he’d heard her, she could not discern. Yet rest he did, lapsing into an uneasy, fevered sleep with his hand still in hers. Her hair hung between them, ends dangling over the bed. This was the first her hair had ever been loose in the presence of a man. Suddenly self-conscious, should the doctor arrive to find her in such dishabille, she eased her husband’s hand onto the coverlet.

He shifted against the pillow, lips parting with a moan. Eager that he should not wake, she shushed him once more. He quieted at the sound of her voice, but stirred again as soon as she stopped speaking.

During the Battle of the Blackwater, she had sung to keep her fellow refugees calm. It was all she had known to do. So that was what she did now. The only song to come to mind was a hymn that had been her favorite, in those times. She was almost surprised to find she remembered the words; it was such a distant memory, now, having been that shining young girl with the songbird voice, encouraging others to take heart. But remember them she did, and her voice rang clear and true, despite the shakiness she felt after so much disuse.

Jon seemed calmed by it, at any rate, and she took the time it took her to get through the verses to tame her hair into a loose braid which trailed over her shoulder. She looked somewhat less wanton now, which would be a comfort when the doctor arrived and she was called on to be Lady Snow instead of a tired, scared girl.

She removed the cloth from his head and dipped it into the basin of water. The cloth had warmed considerably in only a few minutes, but the water remained cool. As she wrung the cloth out, she looked at the man in the bed. Her husband. So many months later, it was still strange to think of. She had entered the marriage almost in a fever dream herself. All she’d truly heard in Queen Daenerys’s proposal was the offer to send her home to Winterfell to stay. The condition that, before she departed, she’d marry her cousin, the queen’s nephew-- that was something she had not given as much thought as it had, perhaps, deserved. 

She’d been one-and-twenty, but she’d felt ancient. All she had wanted, after the six long years that had destroyed her family and left her the heiress of Winterfell, was to go home. She had considered a loveless marriage to an honorable man a small price to pay into the bargain.

And, of course, she’d known him. Enough to know he was trustworthy. As the orphaned son of a relation of whom her father had been particularly fond, he had visited Winterfell for some periods of his youth. Sansa had known him as a moody cousin of no remarkable social stature, who hadn’t the temperament for the pastimes that interested her. She hadn’t paid him much mind. He’d been of an age with her brother Robb, which made him five-and-twenty now, or six-and-twenty, young yet-- he’d been only a boy when the war had begun. Yet he had emerged from it this sad, quiet stranger, a severe man with a scar over one eye and a reputation as a hero, a man who happened to be the heir presumptive to the throne of Westeros.

Jeyne was right; he was handsome, Lord Snow. Other than the scar, he had fine skin still, and even features, and his dark hair was full and thick. He tended to the austere side of things, smiling little, which before the war Sansa would have considered a sign of poor character in a man. She’d learned from the Lannisters that even a smile could be a lie, and his serious nature didn’t bother her as much as it might once have done. As it once had.

Sansa settled the cloth upon his forehead, brushing a curl from his temple. Winterfell had been a fortress. It was built for security, too. That didn’t mean there wasn’t beauty in it. She knew that better than anyone, these days.

The hours wore on, her hands always busy with cool cloths and blankets and, when he stirred, her husband’s own. She hummed songs to keep him quiet when he was beset by dreams, and held water to his lips when he was troubled by coughing. The work was the only thing that kept her from succumbing entirely to despair; why had the doctor not come?

Daylight was tinging the horizon a warm pink when a gentle knock sounded at the door. “I’ve brought the doctor, my lady,” Mya announced meekly. Sansa was startled to see her maid already dressed for the day.

“Of course,” she said, straightening in her chair. “Thank you, Mya. Please send him in.”

“I do apologize for the delay, Lady Snow,” Doctor Tybald said as he entered. “I was called away on an urgent matter. It was hours before I was even made aware of His Lordship’s indisposition.”

Sansa pressed her lips together. “I do hope your other patient is all right.”

“It was a difficult birth, my lady. Mother and child are both well now, but I was needed through the night.”

“May they be blessed.” She looked away, afraid he would see the shame and envy on her face. A birth was a happy tiding, something there had been too few of in recent years. It was indecent to feel anything other than celebratory at the creation of new life.

The sound of the doctor’s bag on the table disturbed Jon, who lurched awake with a rather terrible bout of coughing. Alarmed, Sansa laid a hand on his arm and made calming noises.

Tybald cleared his throat. “If I may, my lady,” he said, sounding apologetic, “I’d like a moment to examine His Lordship.”

Jon looked over at the doctor for the first time, turning his reddened face to peer through grey eyes turned watery from the exertion of his cough. “Sansa--” But whatever he was going to say was cut off by still more coughing.

Sansa stood and smoothed her dressing gown. “I’ll step out and give you some privacy.” She walked briskly out of the room, not daring to look back. Jory closed the door behind her.

She arranged herself on the hall bench, hands clenched tightly around each other. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles, restraining herself from pacing only through the application of great effort. She heard a murmur of voices-- the doctor’s, then Jon’s, then the doctor’s again, then Jory’s-- and coughing, always the coughing, same as had awoken her so many hours past.

At long last, the door opened again and Tybald exited, bag in hand.

Sansa leapt to her feet. “Is he--” She stopped herself, trying to gather her wits. How would a lady of maturity, a lord’s wife, speak to the doctor attending her husband?

Tybald did not seem perturbed by her flustered state. “A touch of bronchial inflammation, Lady Snow, but I have every faith he will recover. The fevers always rise in the night and make the illness seem more serious than it is.”

She closed her eyes, ashamed to feel tears accumulating there. Such a relief, to know he would be well. “I am sorry to have summoned you needlessly, Doctor.”

“No, no, you did quite right to have me in. Best not to take risks with His Lordship’s health. It is quite an honor to be asked to see to him.” His smile was evident in his voice. “Please allow me to set your mind at ease. You tended him admirably while I was delayed. I’m certain any young wife would want her husband returned to strength quickly.”

A hot flush spread over her cheeks. “Of course. Thank you.” Her voice sounded faint, even to her own ears.

Doctor Tybald frowned. “Lady Snow, you look unwell. I do hope you aren’t coming down ill as well.”

Sansa shook her head. “It has been a long and exhausting night for us all, I think.”

“Indeed, my lady.” He nodded sympathetically. “I’ve left some syrups with His Lordship’s man, to help him rest more comfortably. That’s what he needs most.”

She nodded along. “Thank you again, Doctor. Would you like some tea, before you go?”

“That won’t be necessary, my lady. I’ve kept you long enough.” Tybald gave her an examining look. “Might I suggest you get some rest yourself, my lady? It wouldn’t do for you to compromise your own health at such a time.”

Sansa bit her tongue to keep from volunteering that she was not with child. “I assure you I will be well looked after,” she said instead, with what she hoped passed for good humor.

“Do not hesitate to call, if his condition worsens. I’ll return tomorrow to check in, but I’m not concerned. His Lordship is young and strong, and we’ve every reason to believe he will recover his health in due course.”

The doctor left, and Sansa floated deliriously back into her own room, where she fell almost instantly into a heavy slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think I'm finished, another very minor edit suggests itself.
> 
> Chapter four is more or less complete, so you can expect it in the next day or so.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your kind and insightful comments! This is my first time writing for this fandom so I didn't know what to expect, but so far it's been lovely.


	4. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the previous night's crisis, the doctor returns to give his recommendation, and a fragile agreement is struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned: there is some light implication of period-typical sexism, which will haunt the subplot introduced in this chapter.

Sansa woke scandalously late in the day, the sunlight filtering richly through the gap in her curtains. Ordinarily, Mya would have been in hours ago to dress her, but the disruption in the night seemed to have thrown the household entirely out of its routine. Sansa rang the bell to request tea and a bath-- she felt puffy and grimy after the long night.

Clean and feeling more ladylike, she donned a purple dress and pinned her hair up. She took herself down to the kitchens, where she discussed plans for feeding the sick with the cook. Cook had the situation firmly in hand, and Sansa couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being humored, like a child playing pretend.

As such, it was nearly a relief when Lew poked his head in and cleared his throat apologetically. “Many pardons, my lady, but you ought to know Dr. Tybald has returned. He’s been shown to His Lordship’s rooms.” 

Sansa stood. “Thank you, Lew. I’ll go up to speak with him right away.” She spared the cook an apologetic glance, which the older woman tolerated with indifference. 

“...at all until your lungs clear,” the doctor was saying as his voice came into focus down the hall. 

The door to Jon’s room stood open, and he was propped upright by pillows, against which he reclined exhaustedly. He looked done in, sweaty and flushed with fever, but alert to the doctor’s words. 

Sansa hesitated at the threshold, uncertain if she should enter. She’d gone into his rooms last night, of course, but that was different. He’d been delirious, and the situation had called for her steady hand. Tybald was here to assume control, and her husband was lucid if the doctor’s tone of voice was anything to go by. It was possible neither of them would welcome the intrusion. She contemplated turning back the way she’d come and pretending she’d never gotten the message. 

“I must—” Jon’s voice sounded horrid, and it must have pained him, for he broke almost instantly into a fit of coughing that had the same deep and crackling quality as those of the night previous. He lifted a handkerchief in one clenched fist and clasped it over his face. 

She must have made some unconscious exclamation, for both sets of eyes turned to her. 

“Lady Snow,” Tybald greeted her with a smile, as her husband continued that horrible coughing, muffled now into his handkerchief. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into His Lordship.”

Feeling like she had been caught lurking, Sansa stepped forward, licking her lips. “Well, I don’t know about that, Doctor.” She smiled nervously. 

Above his handkerchief, Jon’s grey eyes glowered.

Tybald laughed. He did so more out of politeness than genuine amusement; his face quickly made itself very grave. “I’ve just told Lord Snow he’s to be confined to bed until the fever breaks and the cough abates, and he’s insisting he must continue with his work. If he continues to push himself, he could develop a pneumonia, which is a very serious illness.”

That sounded quite a bit worse than what he’d told her last night. Sansa frowned. “When might he— that is, how long do you think it will take for— for his condition to, ah… improve?”

The doctor didn’t seem concerned with her nervousness. Perhaps it was the usual way, for a wife to worry. “It depends upon his progress, but it could be a fortnight, easily. He’s quite ill, and needs complete rest.”

To think that last night he’d promised every faith His Lordship would recover! It occurred to her that Tybald must have been handling her gently, out of respect for her womanly frailties. Dr. Luwin would never have treated Catelyn Stark with such kid gloves, nor would she have permitted him to.

She squared her shoulders. “Jon, you simply must do as Doctor says. There can be no question of your running yourself into an early grave.”

“You see, my lord, your wife understands. You cannot run the estate if you do not first care for yourself. There must be someone who can handle business while you are indisposed.”

Jon lowered his handkerchief at last and drew an unsteady breath. “But surely,” he croaked, “an ill lord is better than one who neglects his people.”

“If you contract a lung fever and die, there will be no lord at all!” Sansa exclaimed. Surprised at herself, she cast her gaze at the carpet to avoid the astonished glances of the men. When she spoke again, it was in a more moderate tone. “Until you are well again, you must have rest. I shall see to things in the meantime.”

A long moment of silence dared anyone to quarrel. No one did.

“So you see, it is all in hand,” Dr. Tybald said, though his eyebrows furrowed in evident concern. “You are to stay abed and not trouble yourself overmuch with worries about the estate. Use those syrups I brought to ease your sleep and you shall be on the mend in no time.” He closed his bag with a definitive snap. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Let me walk you out, please, Doctor.” Sansa extended one arm toward the door. Jon needed his rest.

Once in the hall, Tybald spoke in a lowered voice. “I’ll come by every day to see to His Lordship’s care. By all means telephone me if you see any cause for concern and I’ll come right over. His Lordship’s health is paramount.”

Sansa pressed her lips together to prevent herself from reminding him that last time she’d seen cause for concern he had not arrived for several hours. Had the crisis been emergent, it might have resulted in Lord Snow’s death. She offered him her hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He turned to the door, then stopped and turned back. “Lady Snow?”

“Yes, Dr. Tybald?” 

“I hope you will not… overtax yourself… with estate business.” He cleared his throat. “I trust there are many associates of Lord Snow’s who will be only too happy to step up and assist in your time of need.”

She folded her hands. “Thank you for your concern, Doctor. I assure you I will do whatever is necessary.” 

Apparently satisfied, he nodded encouragingly and took his leave.

Sansa stood rigidly as she watched him leave. Surely tending to estate matters would not be so difficult as all that. Not to someone who had managed a household and survived a war. She’d be glad of something to do other than fret.

There was plenty to fret about. In the whole of their marriage, her husband had not once passed a fortnight without making a trip that took him away from Winterfell overnight-- whether to the Citadel or King’s Landing or elsewhere. For Lord Snow to be a constant presence in the house during his illness would present a considerable alteration to the usual course of life.

Of course, as he was too sick to leave his bed at present, she needn’t get too far ahead of herself. There would be ample time to worry about getting underfoot and on one another’s nerves. 

“My lady?” Mya’s voice was soft. “May I help you with anything?”

Sansa blinked, surprised to find herself standing still outside her husband’s rooms. “No, Mya, thank you.”

Mya gave her an uncertain smile and curtsy before going on her way.

“Wait,” Sansa called. “Mya. Would you request lemon cakes, please? I have a sudden craving.”

“Of course, my lady.” Mya’s smile now seemed more genuine, as she took off down the hall with renewed purpose.

If ever an occasion called for lemon cakes, this was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one today; Friday begged to be split into two, for narrative purposes. Not much of Jon in this one, but he'll make up for it once he is feeling slightly better.


	5. Friday, evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is summoned once more to her husband's bedside; Lord and Lady Snow share a rare moment alone.

“My lady?”

Sansa looked up from her plate to see Jory hovering in the doorway of the dining room. She felt a stab of panic. It wasn’t usual for anyone to disturb her at supper time. “Yes, what is it?” If Jon had worsened…

Jory’s face was pinched, anxious. “It’s, erm… it concerns His Lordship. He isn’t… that is, he won’t… he’s refused his dinner. I didn’t know if I ought to telephone for the doctor again, or…”

Sansa stood quickly, her chair scraping the stone floor with a harsh noise as her napkin fell to the ground. “Thank you for alerting me, Jory. I’ll look in and see how Lord Snow is doing.”

As she ascended the stairs, she heard him. Any time she had passed the hall that day, she’d heard it, the dreadful, wrenching coughing within His Lordship’s room. If he was getting any rest at all, it was a miracle to thank the Mother for.

The room, when she entered it, smelled thickly of the camphor liniment that had been smeared on Jon’s chest in hopes of aiding his respiration. The man himself sat shivering in his bedclothes, his thin nightshirt emerging above a heavy woolen blanket.

“I t-told them not to interrupt your s-supper,” Jon stammered between his chattering teeth. His voice was threatening to take its leave from him at any moment, vacillating between high-pitched squeaks and tones huskier than his usual deep voice.

“Nonsense, Jory did right to fetch me.” Sansa strode to his side and lifted a hand to feel his warmth, but stopped short of actually touching his skin. It was pointless, at any rate; she could tell from across the room that he was feverish. “You do not seem improved.”

He let out a weak laugh which turned immediately into more coughing. “No, I suspect not,” he choked between coughs.

Her hands wanted something to do; she occupied them with pouring water from the pitcher on the table into a glass, which she pressed into his hand. “Do you think we ought to have the doctor in?”

Jon sipped the water, grimacing as he swallowed. “I am not any worse.”

She considered this. It was far from a straightforward denial that medical care was necessary, but it seemed nonetheless true. Though the shivering heralded a rising temperature, Tybald had said that was to be expected in the evenings, and he seemed possessed enough of his mental faculties.

Sansa sat in the chair Jory had brought to the bedside during the long dark night. “Well, then, what are we to do?” She smiled ruefully.

Jon shrugged. “Wait, I suppose.” He gave a feeble half-cough in an attempt to clear his throat. “You c-can go back to your supper. It is only this, here.” He gestured with one hand to everything: the medicines, the bedcovers, his own pallid, shivering form.

Then he had to pull his hand back, for he began coughing again, and could not cover his mouth and hold his blankets with only one. 

“I had quite finished my supper,” Sansa assured him. “Which I hear is not something that is also true of you.”

Still coughing, Jon shook his head dismissively. 

“Excuse me, my lady,” Mya said timidly from the hall. “I beg your pardon, but Cook wants to know whether you want your cakes. I’d not interrupt, but…”

The lemon cakes. She’d had them made specially, and Cook could be awfully formidable about waste. “I’ll take them in here, Mya,” Sansa said, “and some mint tea for His Lordship.”

“Right away, my lady.” 

Sansa twitched the rumpled sheet that lay across Jon’s legs. There. Now it was perfect. 

Spent from his coughing spell, he lay panting against the pillows, one hand rubbing at his chest. It must have been dreadfully sore. His throat, too, she supposed. Probably why he wasn’t eating. The tea would help with that, gods willing. 

The tea came on a tray with a dainty plate of cakes, topped with honey. In her mother’s day, lemon cakes had been elaborate things, made with lavender and almonds and dusted with fine sugar, but after the privation of war, a more rustic recipe was in style.

“You really ought to eat something, you’re frightening Jory,” Sansa remarked, as she poured him a cup of tea. The fragrant steam rose between them. “At the very least you must drink, or you’ll weaken terribly.”

The corner of his mouth lifted as he accepted the cup from her hands. After an experimental sip, he evidently deemed it soothing enough to continue. 

Satisfied that he would not perish if she diverted her attention for one moment, Sansa lifted a lemon cake to her mouth and bit into it. It was light and fluffy and bright in her mouth, and she closed her eyes to savour it. It was like being transported to another time, a happier time. 

“Lemon cakes,” Jon rasped. 

“Yes,” she sighed. “Lemon cakes. Would you like one?”

No one had ever liked lemon cakes as much as she did, and he’d declined easier foods than this, so it was a surprise when he nodded, almost hesitantly.

Sansa handed him a cake. The honey might do his throat some good, anyhow. 

He ate it slowly, the chewing and swallowing hard work in his state. He cupped a hand with a fresh handkerchief beneath, so as not to spare a crumb.

“A delicate flavour,” he murmured when he had finished. “It suits you.”

Sansa startled. “What?”

“Your favorite. Lemon cakes.” He coughed into his fist, but quieted it with a sip of tea. “Always were.”

“You remember that?” Sansa felt color rushing to her cheeks, and hoped he was too tired to notice.

Jon nodded. “They used to make fun. Arya especially. Saying—“ he had to pause for another couple of coughs— “why ship lemons north when there are fruits that grow locally. I understand now.” His voice was weakening even further, but he pushed through after a swallow of tea. “Lemons are tart, but you can turn them sweet if you try. It’s… lovely.” His eyelids were lingering longer over his eyes with each blink. 

“I don’t think you ought to be talking,” Sansa said. “You’ll tire yourself.” She stood, straightening her skirts. “I’ll leave you to your rest, now. Goodnight.”

He sighed something that might have been goodnight, but he was too far gone to enunciate clearly. Anyway it hardly mattered. He had eaten, and he was resting. That was the important thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all sooooo much for the comments! I read all of them, multiple times apiece. I wish I could respond to you individually with the care and thoughtfulness you deserve but I am directing all my creative energy toward writing new material for the upcoming parts, to get it to you as soon as possible.
> 
> I am hard at work describing the events of Saturday, just trying to strike the proper balance between the main Jonsa plot and the subplot I added at the last minute where Sansa applies her keen political mind to running her estate. It'll probably take me a couple of days to hammer that out, and when I'm satisfied you'll see the results here.
> 
> Much love!


	6. Saturday, morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets herself in order to start managing the property. Jon has difficulty sleeping.

Sansa jolted awake, heart pounding in her chest.  _ It’s all right _ , she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.  _ It’s over. You are safe. You are home. _

She opened her eyes to survey her familiar bedroom, a welcome and comforting sight as it always was after she’d dreamt of King’s Landing or the Eyrie or any of the places she’d seen destroyed during the war. She was in Winterfell. In Winterfell, where she belonged.

She took a deep breath and looked to the window to calm herself. The morning sun was just cresting over the horizon, that beloved landscape of snowy mountains in the distance beyond the wood. After the eventful first evening of Jon’s illness, she’d slept late, too exhausted for even the plague of nightmares to rouse her. Now it was back to her usual routine.

Once she was dressed, she thought to take Jon another lemon cake, in case he still found eating difficult, only to be told Lord Snow was still sleeping.

“It was a hard night, my lady.” Jory said apologetically.

Sansa felt herself beginning to blush. She ought to have realised it would take more than a single night for his waking hours to return to normal, given how ill he was and the bouts of coughing that continued to trouble his sleep. “Yes, I suppose it was,” she said. “Will you take some lemon cakes on his tea tray, when he wakes?” It seemed so silly now, the sort of gift a child might make. But it was all she had.

Jory bowed his head. “I’m sure he will appreciate that, my lady.”

An idea occurred for a way Jory might still be useful to her, although his master was yet asleep. “You manage Lord Snow’s papers, do you not? I wonder whether you might have all correspondence related to the estate redirected to me, for the time being.”

He looked puzzled, but, bless him, he wasn’t given to questioning his superiors. “If you’d like.”

“I would.” She smiled at him. “You can have them brought to my solar, when you’ve got them collected.”

Sansa’s solar was a room that had remained mostly unchanged since the days of Lady Catelyn, who had had it done up in a feminine, Southron style upon her marriage. Sansa had moved a few of Winterfell’s more traditionally Northern decorations in-- the Southron style had lost much of its glamour for her in recent years— but it pleased her to keep the room more or less as it was. In so many ways, even Winterfell was not the home to her it had been, but in her solar she could remember what it had felt like when she was not a lone wolf but part of a pack. 

Her basket of embroidery thread sat on the edge of the writing desk, and she removed it to a chaise. She adored embroidery— taking something useful and making it beautiful, one stitch at a time. Managing the estate could be like that, she thought. A collection of minute details that added up to functional beauty.

The letters Lew brought her took up more space on her small writing desk than she had anticipated. Maybe that was why mens’ studies had such large and imposing furniture.

The first document off the pile was a request from a farmer to delay payment on their rent until after the calving; his wife had birthed their child early and had been unable to finish dyeing her woolen yarn in time to sell it at the last market. Sansa wrote a quick note of permission and congratulations, and set the request to the left. The next was an offer to lead tour groups into the main rooms of Winterfell. At this, she wrinkled her nose and pushed the paper to the far right corner of the desk, to begin a pile of rejected pleas. She’d had enough of being a spectacle. Winterfell was private.

The rest of the morning went like this, her  _ yes  _ and  _ no  _ stacks growing steadily larger as she dispatched with small, non-urgent tasks. There was something profoundly satisfying in making decisions and carrying them out, a feeling she’d scarcely experienced since she became Lady Snow. Her marriage had plunged her into such a well of uncertainty that she had more than once dithered for hours about a dinner menu, moved to tears by anxiety that her husband would find her choices inappropriate. He never had a harsh word for her, which somehow had never lessened her worry she might displease him. But he was not to be concerned with Wardship of the North for a fortnight at least. Knowing that, for the time being, she was the sole authority on all matters North gave her some measure of confidence. 

Eventually, she came across a few more complex queries. Ought she to authorize the construction of a new granary in the southeast reaches of the property? How might she arbitrate a dispute between neighbors regarding flax they had grown together? Should stores be redistributed to augment the meager resources of a few of the southernmost farmers, who had gotten more rain and lost a few crops to rot? These she set at the back of her desk, to think about further.

A soft rap at the door called her attention.

“Goodness, is it time for luncheon already?” Sansa set her pen down and pushed back from the desk. 

Lew bowed his head. “Not quite, my lady.”

“Oh.” Sansa faltered. “Well, never mind. Will you take these letters to post?” She gathered the envelopes containing her completed business and handed them to the footman. 

He accepted them obediently. “Dr. Tybald came and went, my lady. He didn’t wish you to be disturbed, when he heard you were about business.”

Sansa felt a flash of anger that he should presume to know what was best for her, physician or no. She was the lady of the house. But it burned out quickly. She had known many men like him, before the war and since; they were to be endured. And anyway, there were more important concerns. “How fares His Lordship?”

“Much the same,” Lew said. “He is asking for you.”

There was only one place for a wife whose husband was asking for her. She went to his side.

He’d been bathed and groomed since she’d been in last night, his hair combed and hanging in loose curls like a boy’s. It lent him a lively air unsupported by his state of health. His fresh nightshirt was open at the neck, not laced all the way up.

Sansa averted her eyes. “You asked to see me?”

Jon’s face tightened. “Yes.” His voice remained a hoarse whisper, but still he did not submit to being without it. “I thought--” he smothered a cough behind his hand. It failed to satisfy his body’s needs, and the ripping coughs went on, growing in intensity until, finally, they began to taper off.

Sansa folded her hands and waited, unsure of what to do.

He took a moment after the coughing subsided, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Then he looked to her once more and started again. “I thought I ought to… to tell you. You needn’t trouble yourself, with business matters.”

She shifted uncomfortably and said nothing.

His breath still coming in labored gasps, Jon looked away, one finger tracing a line of stitching in his coverlet. “It was kind of you to step in. But I can manage, with help from Jory and Sam.”

Hot shame filled her stomach. Her mouth opened, but no words came to it, so she closed it again.

Jon, focused on the embroidery of his coverlet, did not notice. “Of course you must be busy already with keeping the house. You can’t be expected to--” He broke off into another bout of coughing, mercifully stopping his speech.

“I can and must,” Sansa said firmly, fixing her eyes on the spot where the wall met the ceiling. “The Starks have managed these holdings for generations. I am the last Stark. I am the Lady of Winterfell. It’s my duty to serve them.” With effort, she lowered her gaze to his, and said, voice soft: “I want to. Please.”

She’d learned from Joffrey the humiliation of begging; she’d also learned the cost of refusing to. Speaking to Jon, now, didn’t carry the weight of begging. It felt instead like a chance to come home at last.

Her husband was a habitual frowner, and he was frowning now. She tried not to read much into it.

“If you’re certain,” he said at last.

Sansa felt a smile rise, unbidden, to her face. “I am  _ very  _ certain.” Relief, or perhaps the hours of uninterrupted work, had left her lightheaded, and she took a seat, from necessity rather than a desire to prolong the encounter. “Besides, you can barely sit upright. I don’t think Dr. Tybald would thank me for jeopardizing your health by abdicating my duty.” She kept her tone light and breezy, but his face tightened at the mention of the doctor’s name.

Whatever response he might have made, though, was lost to a sudden seizure of coughing. His shoulders heaved with it, shaking his frame in time with the grinding sound it made low in his chest.

It was Sansa’s turn to frown. That didn’t sound good at all. He didn’t look as much improved as she’d first taken him for, either. There was sweat beading on his brow and the skin around his eyes was bruised with weariness. She leaned forward in the chair to lay one of her pale, cool hands over his chafed, over-warm one on the coverlet. “You need your rest. Do not take it as a failing.” She traced the line of his eyes down to their hands, touching, and pulled back hastily with both her touch and her gaze. Instead, she looked to the night-table with the glass-stoppered bottles Tybald had left behind him. “Do you need more of your syrups?”

He shook his head, a touch violently. “I don’t--” But he wasn’t finished with his coughing, or it wasn’t finished with him. It was a long, uncomfortable moment before he managed to croak “don’t  _ want  _ it.”

She felt her lips folding into a sceptical expression. “They’ll help you to sleep.”

“Badly, for an hour or two,” Jon said. “Not worth it.” The set of his face was grim.

She wondered what it cost him, an hour of sleep. “Would it help if you weren’t alone?”

He moved to look at her, so quickly a strand of hair fell over the eye with the scar. “Why would it?”

Sansa’s face heated. “Well,” she said, keeping her eyes on the neat crease in his fresh bed linens. She couldn’t very well mention how he’d quieted when she’d sung to him, that first long night. It wouldn’t do at all to use against him things he’d done when he was out of his head. “I used to have trouble, too. When I was ill, or… or, other times.” 

She felt dreadfully exposed under the weight of his eyes on her. “Sometimes, when my mother was alive, she would sit with me. It was the only thing that… made things easier.” Too late, she wondered if she ought to have mentioned Cat; after all, Jon might think it boastful of her to remind him she’d known her mother, and he hadn’t known his. When he’d stayed at Winterfell, he’d kept his distance from Lady Catelyn as much as from Sansa. They hadn’t got on. It might not be a welcome reminder, for him, that she’d been a good mother to her children.

Despite her lack of forethought, he looked thoughtful, not wounded. But the gleam went from his eyes almost as soon as it had arrived there. “I couldn’t ask more of Jory’s time. He’s worked to the bone tending me as is.”

Jory would do all that and more for his lord. But that wasn’t what she’d had in mind. 

“I could stop in,” Sansa said. “It would be no trouble, in the afternoons, to spend a while here instead of my solar. I could bring my embroidery or correspondences and sit quietly, or read a book.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose on your time,” he said. 

She forced her brightest smile. “Nonsense. I’d be glad of it.” If she was lying, there was no reason to burden him with that fact. Her stomach twisted with the possibility that he was only being polite and would prefer her far from his side, but… but he hadn’t minded, before. Her job as a wife was to support him. It was only for a few days, until he was resting easier.

He was still contemplating her offer when Mya came to announce that Sansa’s luncheon had been laid.

“I’ll be down shortly,” Sansa told the maid, before turning back to her husband. “Shall I return after luncheon?”

With a slow and uneasy acquiescence, Jon nodded. “Well… if it won’t put you out. Lord knows I’ve no other occupation at present.”

Sansa wore a smaller smile now, but to her surprise it felt less false. “I’d like that.”

Jon cleared his throat. “This afternoon, then.”

Sansa left his rooms feeling lighter than she had entered. That, in itself, was worth being thankful for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a few days longer than planned. That is likely the new normal, because I am moving house at present, and will be away from my computer more than not for the next week. But I hope what I'm working on will be worth the wait.


	7. Saturday, afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reads Jon a story.

Sansa returned that afternoon with her favourite book clutched in her hand. She would need all the comfort she could take from it, in order to exude a comforting presence. This had not been so difficult for her, once; she had been a sweet girl, with an eagerness to please that expressed itself in charming manners and an easy smile. She’d been so often disappointed during the war, so often a disappointment, that the same eagerness had soured into anxiousness and irritability. Gone were the carefree days of gowns and parties, swept away with the winds of winter. In their place had been left a life of duty and toil.

She took a deep breath before entering her husband’s chamber.

Jon didn’t look up when she crossed the threshold, giving her a chance to survey him first. He lay in that familiarly miserable state of half-repose, neither truly waking nor truly asleep. His eyelashes fluttered in time with the shallow, raspy breaths he drew through parted lips. 

Someone had done up his shirt, at least. The soft hollow of his throat and the strong expanse of his chest were tucked away decorously, where they might not prove such a distraction.

Remembering the night her hair had been loose in this room, Sansa had to resist the urge to raise a hand to check her coiffure. She would only muss it.  

The room had been tidied as well, much of the chaos of the past days cleared and set to rights. This had exposed Lord Snow’s rooms to be sparsely decorated and not half as well-appointed as her own. Everything was of a quality befitting his station, but of comfort and beauty there was very little to be found. The inhospitableness of his rooms saddened her. He was away often, perhaps often enough that Winterfell had become no more a true home to him than she a true wife. It couldn’t be pleasant to be confined to such a stark and impersonal chamber.

Even the chair she sat in had been a recent addition, brought in for her comfort alone. She thought of this as she settled her skirts, the sound of which finally roused her husband to turn his head to her.

Sansa summoned a smile. “Good afternoon,” she greeted.

“Good afternoon,” he answered, his voice a low growl. He attempted to return her smile, but his eyes were too weary; she wondered if her own was more convincing.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said. “Only close your eyes and try to rest. I am here for you, not the other way round.” She nodded encouragingly.

He stopped short of frowning, but a wrinkle formed between his dark brows. He didn’t argue, though, only settled against his pillow as she opened her book.

The first hour was fraught with difficulties. Although he never complained, Jon couldn’t seem to get comfortable, shifting frequently and beset by coughing at unpredictable intervals. Sansa found it all but impossible to focus on her reading under these conditions, but was at an utter loss for ways to be of help. She could hardly rest on his behalf. 

“It is no use,” he said at last. “I am keeping you from--” More harsh coughs prevented him from naming what he thought he was keeping her from. Another afternoon of solitary uselessness, perhaps.

Sansa licked her lips. “You are keeping me from nothing,” she assured him. “I only wish there were more I could do.” She shook her head, looking to the bare mantle and then her own lap. The pale cover of her book shone back at her.

The book.

Her fingers traced the length of a gilded A on the cover. “Would you like-- that is, sometimes it’s beneficial to-- I could… read aloud. To pass the time.” 

It was a stupid idea, straight from the idealistic girl she had once been. Yet when she dared to look to him, he did not reject her gaze or her offer.

“I would be awfully glad of it,” he croaked. “If you are sincere, and wouldn’t mind.” A ghost of a smile graced his face. It made him look soft, inviting. “It gets frightful dull, being left to myself.”

Sansa could sympathise. “It’s silly stuff, I’m afraid. You might not care much for it.” After all, she hadn’t been planning on sharing. 

“I’m certain it’s fine.”

She bit her lip. It was a girlhood treasure, not something she would have chosen for a man’s reading. Not that she knew what men liked.

Jon regarded her seriously. “You can’t think I’m such a boor I’d complain when a lady’s doing me a kindness. Sansa, please.”

Sansa nodded shakily. She opened the book and turned pages until she found the beginning of a tale.

“There once lived a knight foolish enough to fall in love with the woman affianced to his patron. His name was Florian, which means fair of hair, but it did not suit him; rather, his head was dark. One day, as he walked in the woods, he came across a pool where there were young ladies bathing. Six sisters, each lovelier than the last. Loveliest of all was a maid called Jonquil, and for all his name failed to match him hers suited tenfold, for she was slender and fair as the first flower beneath the spring sun. When Florian spied her…”

Sansa read on, her self-consciousness falling away and her voice gaining strength as the tale continued. Jon listened quietly, eyes closed. She’d made it halfway through when she realised he hadn’t interrupted with coughing in several pages. 

She lowered the book cautiously, peering over it for the first time in quite a long while. Jon lay relaxed against the pillows, his breathing even and heavy with sleep. He looked so young, asleep, not so many years removed from a child who required a bedtime story. The veins in his eyelids formed an intricate web under the delicate skin. This was rest he needed, badly.

She couldn’t credit herself for it. His exhaustion was so complete he hadn’t needed much more than the opportunity to relax. Still, there was a warm peace in her heart, thinking she might have contributed, with her voice and her favorite tale, to his rest. 

Her throat was dry, unusued to thirty unbroken minutes of speaking. She’d love a cup of tea.

Sansa closed the book. If she could leave the chamber without waking him, she’d have no further need of it. Unlike her sister, she’d had no training in the movements of swordcraft, but her education as a lady had included a lesson or two in appropriate silences. She slipped from the chair and walked with careful steps to the door. She could be very quiet, when she wished to be. She’d had years of practise.

“All is well, my lady?” Jory greeted her in hushed tones when she’d eased Jon’s door closed behind her.

“Quite well,” she said, speaking truthfully for the first time in what felt like years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! As I alluded to in an earlier author's note, this is a time of major life upheaval for me right now, so updates may be sporadic. But they are coming.
> 
> There was a really interesting conversation in the comments of the last chapter about the pacing, which isn't working for some and makes sense to others. I didn't weigh in while it was happening because I didn't want anyone to feel like I was fighting with them. Everyone is right! We are at the very, very beginning of a journey, and my rendering may or may not evoke the feelings for you that I want it to. The criticisms were kindly and thoughtfully offered, and I thank you all for taking the time, most especially for saying you'll continue on with me even though it wasn't what you expected. I hope it eventually pays off, for you and me and everyone else, but only time will tell.


	8. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon each learn something about Florian and Jonquil.

Sansa hadn’t realised Jon’s eyes had a light in them until it went back out again at the sight of her.

Her mouth, which had been open to wish him a good afternoon, closed. She’d thought her visit yesterday had gone well. How foolish and overeager of her to assume he’d felt the same, that he would be glad to see her.

Jon cast his eyes downward. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

Sansa pursed her lips into what she hoped was a smile-adjacent expression. “Good afternoon. How do you fare?”

He grimaced. It was a private expression, intended for himself rather than her, but she didn’t lift her eyes from his face. It was charming, in some ways, to see a piece of him that was not a performance. “Much the same, but I thank you for your interest.” 

She nodded in acknowledgement. “I wondered if you might like company this afternoon, but I can go if you’d--”

“No,” he said, so swiftly he set himself off into a round of jagged coughing. “No,” he panted again. “I’d like that. Only--” He caught himself back from whatever he was about to say, and busied himself instead with forestalling more coughs with a tentative sip of water. 

“It won’t trouble me if you’d rather rest,” Sansa promised. “I assure you I’d find some other way to pass the time.”

Jon’s eyebrows pulled in over his nose. “If you’ve things to do, you needn’t stay.”

Sansa swallowed a sigh of frustration. “That wasn’t at all what I meant. I can answer letters as easily at your table as my own. I only sought to know your preference.” 

“My preference is for your company,” he said, his voice soft. Maybe he was losing it again. “I only regret that you didn’t bring your book of tales with you.”

A peal of laughter escaped her before she could stop herself. “It that all? I can fetch it easily.”

“You don’t need to--”

“Please.” She held up a hand to silence him. “You’ve spoken plainly about your wishes, and I thank you for it. I’d be delighted to get the book. It’s right in my room.” Only a few steps away, in another domain entirely.

It was with mixed emotions that Sansa stepped out to retrieve her book.

“Where shall we begin?” she asked upon her return. “There’s a lovely one about the Grey King, if you like the sound of that.”

Jon cleared his throat. It didn’t seem to do much good; he still sounded rather hoarse when he spoke. “We didn’t finish the last one.”

“Florian and Jonquil?” Sansa blinked. “I thought you might-- that is, it’s a bit, erm--”  _ romantic,  _ she couldn’t bring herself to say. “It’s for children,” she finished lamely. 

He waved a hand, possibly insinuating the whole book was for children. “I want to know how it ends.”

“How it ends,” Sansa repeated, feeling lost. “It’s Florian and Jonquil.”

His face remained neutral.

“Do you-- not know how it ends?” she asked gently. Every child in every nursery in Westeros knew of the fair maiden Jonquil and Florian the Fool. 

But her husband didn’t seem to. “They weren’t much for fairy-stories, at Wall.” Wall Academy, far in the north, where he’d spent much of his youth, between prolonged visits to various guardians. It was an elite school, perhaps not the most prestigious but not far off, especially for someone seeking a military career. Her uncle Benjen had gone. 

It only occurred to her now how harsh and lonely a life it might have made for a boy such as the one her husband had been. Introspective orphans did not always fare as well at boarding schools as he had with her brothers and sister. He was so different from the men she had known in King’s Landing, and no one had known when he was young that he would soon be the closest living relative of the queen regnant.

She registered that she had been looking intently into his face for what must have been several long seconds. Her head snapped down to scrutinize the book in her lap instead. “All right. What’s the last you remember?”

There was a rustling sound as Jon shifted on the bed. “Jonquil had gifted Florian her pony, to replace his horse after the giant ate it.”

It was farther in the story than she’d thought he’d remember. He must have been listening closely, long after she’d thought him asleep. 

“All right,” she said shakily, flipping to the appropriate page. “‘Fool, where is your helmet?’ King Perius cried, for Florian had failed to replace his visor after…”

She read the story through. It took the better part of an hour, by which time her throat was aching, but she was sorry, as she always was, to reach its end. She had to pause a handful of times for Jon to cough, but otherwise he was a good audience, rapt with attention despite the weariness evident in the slump of his broad shoulders. 

“...and thus Jonquil and her foolish Florian were ended.” Sansa concluded. She felt tears hanging in her lashes; she always cried at Jonquil’s final speech to Florian. She only hoped Jon hadn’t noticed this weakness in her.

After a silent moment, he said: “It’s a sad tale.” 

“Yes,” she said, “but there’s beauty in it, too. You can’t have one without the other.”

He'd pulled his knees up to his chest, and sat cradling them as if craving comfort.  “You can’t?”

“No.” On this she was firm. “I used to think you could, but it was nothing more than childish nonsense. If two people love one another, the story is always sad, in the end.” Ned and Cat had loved each other. She had idolized the pair of them, their happily ever after, not realising she was seeing the middle of a tale with a tragic climax. “It can be beautiful, and worthwhile, but it won’t stay happy. That isn’t how life works.”

Jon’s expression was contemplative and grim, his grey eyes heavy with thoughts she could not fathom.

Sansa cleared her throat and reached for the pitcher of water on the nightstand. 

Jon covered her hand with one of his own, shockingly warm from the fever he still burned. “I do hope you aren’t feeling unwell.”

She startled, nearly but not quite retreating from this unexpected touch. “Not at all, do not concern yourself.”

He frowned. “Your throat--”

“--is unused to such lengthy spells of talking.”

He pulled his hand back, looking glum. “I’ve tired you.”

Sansa shook her head, her frustration bordering on fond. “I quite enjoyed myself. It’s my favourite tale, and I’ve not read it through in ever so long.” She smoothed a loose tendril of hair away from her mouth. “There’s always something else to focus on, now I’m grown. It’s nice to have an excuse to revisit it.” She poured water into a glass, leaning forward in her chair, close enough he could have reached out and touched her again, had he wanted.

He did not.

She sipped her water, thinking over her next move. The story was finished, and he knew how it ended now. It would be a simple thing, to return to her own rooms. 

Instead, she favored him with a smile. “Why don’t we ring for tea? I think if I have a cup, my voice could last part of the way into the tale of Bran the Builder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your kind encouragements! I start a new job today, so the next update probably won't come as soon as this one did, but I'll report back as soon as things take shape.


	9. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's feelings for her husband change, and she grows bolder. Jon doesn't appear to mind.

The letters that arrived Monday morning kept her busy through to luncheon. Mr. Poole, the land agent, had sent confirmation of rent collection. She forwarded all invoices to the solicitor, including one from Dr. Tybald. He certainly wasted no time.

She’d also received several invitations addressed to Lord and Lady Snow, all of which she declined. Jon’s illness made for a convenient excuse, but she’d likely have sent regrets to most in any case. Although she’d once loved parties, that had been when she’d enjoyed them among friends. Those friends were long gone now, most of them. Those who sought her company now did so mostly out of interest in her connection to the Queen. Accompanied by a husband who did not love her, she endured comparisons to her mother’s beauty. Too large a gathering reminded her of the King’s Landing balls, and the constant reminders of what she’d lost were too much to bear.

Anyway, no amount of craving for companionship or diversion could induce her to leave Winterfell, not anymore.

After luncheon, she took her book of tales and repaired to her husband’s room. A leather marker with a wolf sigil tooled into it held their place from yesterday. It was very near the end-- Bran the Builder was the second from last of the stories in the tome. After Symeon Star-Eyes, she’d have to turn back to the beginning and read him the tales she’d skipped.

That would be for tomorrow, she knew as soon as she’d laid eyes on Jon. Four days abed had not yet left clear signs of improvement on his face. He’d like as not be asleep within ten pages, if he could keep from coughing that long. He looked gaunt and weary, the dark grey of his eyes matched by shadows under them, shadows doubled again along his jaw where he had not been shaven. 

Sansa drew the chair close by his bedside. “Hello,” she murmured.

“Hello.” He licked his lips. Despite a full cup of tea on the table beside him, they looked dry and cracked. 

She pressed her own lips together in sympathy. “Shall we return to our story? As I recall, Bran had just come from the mountains where he recruited the aid of giants.”

Jon shook his head. “I still think he shouldn’t trust the giants.” His words came slowly, at the mercy of his laboured breathing.

“They’ve a vested interest in protecting the boundary,” Sansa reminded him, a smile curving her face. “They respect him as King in the North.”

“A giant ate Florian’s horse!” Jon’s breath caught and he doubled over with coughing, shoulders heaving as he tried and failed, tried and failed to catch his breath.

Alarmed, Sansa leaned forward and laid a hand flat against his back. She cast about for something helpful and soothing to say, but found nothing. His heart pounded against her palm.

“I’m--  _ fine _ \--” he wheezed between barking coughs smothered in his handkerchief.

“Shh,” Sansa counseled. “Only breathe.”

After a long while, the coughing tapered off into a stuttering, crackling breath. 

Conscious of her hand on his back, Sansa pulled back, lowering her gaze as well as her hand. “You ought to take a syrup,” she said. “The doctor--”

“ _ No _ ,” he panted, his mouth tight.

It was the second time she’d known him to refuse his medicine. Combined with his worn appearance, it turned her mind in a curious direction.

He had strength of character, anyone could see that, but it was unusual for him to deploy it in quite this manner. In questions of dinner menus, clothing purchases, and social engagements his way was to defer to her judgment. He was a gentleman in every sense of the word, and before his illness he had never raised his voice to her.

His adamance, only a few days before, might have intimidated her into silence. But they had spent a handful of hours talking amicably, and she had seen him grow mournful over Florian the Fool. A grown man who could care so deeply about a tale from the Age of Heroes was not someone who frightened her. Something had shifted between them, perhaps was shifting still.

He had needed her, these past days. Not only that: he had  _ wanted  _ her. It had been such a long time since she had felt anything other than a burden, even in her own home. It emboldened her.

“What prevents you from accepting medicine that would help you?”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. “Troubled dreams.”

She knew from his tone she would learn nothing further on this subject. Not, at least, without telling him things she preferred not to confide. He was a reserved man, her husband. Like as not, if she pressed, she’d be asked to leave his chambers, and the tenuous connection between them would be severed.

Theirs wasn’t a love match. The romances she’d dreamt of, traded glances and hands held beneath tables, would never be theirs. But if the last few afternoons were any indication, they could have a friendship. She hadn’t realised she’d wanted that, but now it was in reach she did not wish to endanger it.

She’d tread carefully.

“All right,” she said. “Bran had left the giants and gone on his way to the children of the forest.” She pulled the book open to the page on which she’d stopped yesterday. “After a day and a night and another day of travelling, Bran at last came to the Green Village in the heart of the forest. It was not a village in the way our people live in villages, for the children of the forest are most at home among trees and rocks and have no use for houses with walls and rooves…”

This was a story she knew nearly as well as Florian and Jonquil. Her brother Bran had loved this tale of a wise and clever Stark king who had shared his name. She had read it to him herself, dozens of times, in the nursery. She’d been so relieved on the day he’d declared himself too old for fairy-stories, glad she’d have more time to brush her hair at night instead of resentfully boring him to sleep, not knowing that one day soon she would miss him in her bones.

It surprised Sansa to find she had it more or less memorised. Her eyes often lifted to surreptitiously survey Jon’s face for signs of increased weariness, and she found she did not need to pause the tale in order to do so. Her pauses, though frequent, were reserved for when his coughing could not be contained.

Once or twice she thought he may have caught her looking, but she returned her gaze to the page too quickly to be certain. He never indicated that he’d seen what she was about, so perhaps she’d imagined it.

She coasted to the end of the tale, her listener’s eyes closed against his own pain. From the cadence of his breathing, he was awake still, but likely not for many minutes more. Sansa placed her bookmark in its new place.

“That was a nice one,” he murmured.

A small laugh bubbled out of her lips. “Boys always like that one. A man defending his kingdom through his wits.”

His brow crinkled, though he did not open his eyes. “It’s a good Northern story. He was a Stark, was he not? It’s good to hear about one of our own.”

“But  _ you  _ aren’t a Stark!” The words were out before she had the chance to quash them. 

Now Jon did open his eyes, grey and uneasy as he looked at her. “No, of course. I forget myself.”

Sansa felt the urge to apologise, but she had no idea what for. For alluding to the surname he shared with the queen of Westeros? There wasn’t any need for him to cling to his maternal line. He was far better-connected than any of the Starks had been for many years.

And yet he did not seem pleased to set aside his Stark heritage. She was sorry to have brought it up.

“I like your hair like that,” he said, bringing her back to the moment.

Absently, she lifted a hand to her coiffure. It was a simple Northern style, one her mother had favoured. As a child, she’d thought it boring, had spent hours braiding and coiling her hair into the elaborate fashions popular at court. 

As with breakfast abed, hairstyles were not something she copied from Cersei Lannister any longer.

“Thank you,” she said at last, cheeks flaming.

“Welcome,” he slurred, eyes closing once more.

Sansa fought the smile that threatened to engulf her face. “Good night, Jon, she said.

He made no reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo sorry for the incredible delay on this; because of boring real-life stuff my writing time has been limited. (But when you consider that I actually wrote the first draft of first few pages of this back in 2016, I'm doing pretty good!) My outline is robust, though, and every time I sit down to write I add more things to it, so this is very much alive! As long as you all are reading, I will be writing, at least until [redacted for spoilers]. I have plans, and they are very self-indulgent and grand!


	10. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is waylaid on her way to read to Jon.

Mya brought Sansa a dress of Tully blue, but she asked for one in dove grey instead. Then, when Mya began to dress her hair, she said “No need for anything intricate today. A twisted half-crown will do.”

The maid did not frown, precisely-- her training was too good for that-- but she did look perplexed. “Like yesterday?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sansa said, pleased. She admired her reflection as she was readied for the day, her hair swept back from her face and dressed loosely. 

The plain dress set off her smooth complexion and brought out the coppery tones in her hair. She looked very like her mother like this, simply done in a traditional Northern style with little ornamentation. It didn’t hurt as much as it once had, to look in the mirror and be reminded she was Cat’s daughter.

She went about her day as usual, with a morning in her solar and a solitary luncheon of fish and asparagus. When she stood from the table, book of tales in hand, to go to His Lordship’s rooms, she met with unexpected resistance.

Tollett, the chauffeur, stood at attention in the hall, waiting for her.

“My Lady,” he said, bowing.

“Yes, Tollett, what is it?” Sansa had only spoken to the chauffeur a handful of times. Lord Snow was the one with business off the estate, and she hardly ever left the main house. Tollett was much more Jon’s servant than hers, a distinction he shared with Jory alone.

“It’s Tuesday, my lady.”

This was an unusual method of conversational niceties. Sansa inclined her head slightly. “So it is.” 

Tollett shifted, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Apologies, my lady, only His Lordship directed all business to you for the duration of his illness--”

She stiffened. “Yes, he did.”

The chauffeur winced. “If Your Ladyship wishes to cancel the audiences, I will send word, but if you’d like to attend, we must depart at haste.”

She’d utterly forgotten. An invention of Rickard Stark, her father’s father, the Lord’s audiences were an opportunity for the smallfolk to petition directly to the lord of the manor. Or to appeal to the lady of the manor, as the case may be.

“Of course, we mustn’t cancel the audiences.” Sansa laid her book on a nearby hall table. Her hand lingered over the cover as she stepped away, but at last they were parted. Her fingers went briefly to the neck of her dress, where a spare border of lace formed her only ornament, wondering-- but, no, there wasn’t time to change. She would have to do, as she was.

The audiences had been so important to her father, as a connection betwixt nobility and those they governed. Her responsibility, as the last Stark of Winterfell, was to this above all else.

They didn’t have to go far, at least. The hall where audiences were held was just in town, only a few minutes away by car, barely further than the Poole home. In finer weather, Sansa and her siblings had walked that distance, more than once. Lady Catelyn had considered it proper for children to have moderate bouts of brisk exercise, even girls.

It had been some time, of course, since Sansa had gone into town in search of ribbons and sweets. Today she was in a hurry, to a formal engagement, beneath a sky that threatened a winter rain-- all of which added up to the car. Yet as she watched the countryside beyond the car window, she thought she might like to walk there again someday. When the weather was warmer, and there was no need to stay so cooped up in the house, she and Jeyne could have an outing.

Smallfolk were already waiting in the hall when she arrived. She divested herself of her coat, leaving it to an attendant who carried it wordlessly away. Her hat and gloves she left on.

If those assembled were shocked to find Lady Snow there to receive them rather than His Lordship, they did their best not to show it. Perhaps their eyes were a little wider and their tones more breathless than usual, but perhaps not. She’d never been along on audiences before. It had always been assumed that Robb would be the one to take them over from Father, but that plan had been disrupted… And then, of course, when she’d married it had become Jon’s task, one of many aspects of his life as Warden of the North with which Sansa had not concerned herself.

It wasn’t a packed room by any means-- a dozen men and women or thereabouts milled about-- but still a nervousness fluttered in her chest. Rarely had she been so confronted with the human weight of her duty as a highborn lady. Sansa took her place in the chair at the far end of the room, and the audiences began.

“Your Ladyship,” the first petitioner said, bowing respectfully before her. “My name is Daryn Skagos, and I hope you’ll permit me to speak.”

She smiled and waved her hand. “Please, Mr. Skagos. Tell me your wish.”

He was a man in early middle age, younger than her father would have been, but he was missing a few teeth. Still, the smile he returned her was kind and beseeching. “Begging Your Ladyship’s pardon, but we-- my neighbors and myself-- we’ve been wond’ring if we might introduce some new crops to our fields this year, with Your Ladyship’s blessing.”

Sansa inclined her head. “Alfalfa and rye are tried and true. What makes you want to abandon these reliable staples?”

Skagos blinked. “We’ve been conservative since the war, my lady, but the region is doing better now. We thought we might-- that is, with Your Ladyship’s permission-- diversify. Winter wheat is doing well, and some of the farmers in the Vale have been experimenting with loganberries, which seem to be hearty enough for our climate.”

Behind him, someone cleared their throat loudly.

“I have reports!” Skagos said, suddenly and at slightly too high a volume.

She accepted the folio he proffered and thumbed through its contents. It was thorough, with growth reports from bordering territories and estimates of cost and profit. “It is a risk,” she said.

His brow wrinkled. From the looks of it, it had been wrinkled many times before.

Sansa unfurled her hands from the folio and pressed her damp palms against her skirt. She tried again. “Without some risk, we would never make advances, Mr. Skagos. You appear to have done your due diligence in evaluating that risk, as well as the potential benefit. I ask only for you to be cautious in exploring these options, and mitigate the danger by saving some portion of each farm plot to grow something trustworthy, so you are not left with nothing should the new venture fail.” She took a steadying breath. “I look forward to hearing of your progress.”

Skagos bowed, a grin stretching his face. “Thank you, my lady.”

Sansa’s smile was warmer and more genuine for the next postulant. “Welcome.”

A wide-eyed young woman curtsied awkwardly. “G-- good afternoon, my-- my lady,” she stammered.

“What is your name?” Sansa asked, leaning forward.

“Annys Black,” the woman said. “My lady!” she added hastily.

“What have you come to say, Miss Black?”

“It’s-- it’s Mrs. Black,” she said, looking horrified to find herself correcting Lady Snow. 

“My apologies, Mrs. Black.” Sansa said. “What is your business?”

Mrs. Black’s hands hid themselves in her apron. “Ain’t got no business, Your Ladyship. That’s the trouble. I had work at the haberdashery, ‘til I had my boy. Since then I’ve been at home, but my man fell off a ladder and broke his back, so he can’t work neither.”

Sansa’s brow creased. “The haberdashery won’t have you, now you’ve a child?”

Mrs. Black blushed. “Oh, no, Your Ladyship, Mrs. V’s got a place for me, but there’s no one to watch my Fryddie. Jerome’s too sick and we’ve neither one any family that can do it.” Her head was shaking almost mechanically, which did not distract Sansa entirely from the tears in her eyes. “I don’t mind for myself, but I can’t let my baby--” She bit back the end of her sentence. “Please, Your Ladyship.”

“I’m very sorry for your family’s troubles, Mrs. Black.” Sansa said. “I’ll see to it you have money to last until your husband is back on his feet. Any further difficulties, keep me informed. We must look after one another.” Whether she meant Northerners or women with incapacitated husbands, she didn’t know. 

“Thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Black sighed, breathless. “Oh, thank you.”

The rest of those waiting for their turn put all the shock from her entry to use in their faces, following her gift to Mrs. Black.

When at last the final petition had been heard, Sansa wilted against the chair. Her mother had taught her that a lady’s back was never to touch the furniture she sat on, but she was too tired for proper posture. That was the most people she’d seen in a day since… since well before her marriage. Probably the last had been the queen’s coronation, which had doubled as a victory party for the war Daenerys Targaryen had ended with her fleet. Sansa’s attendance, as the last of her once-great house, had been required-- but she had not felt much like celebrating. She’d been tired then, too, she recalled, and frightened among the carousing men; she’d slipped away as soon as she could.

A fortnight later, she’d been betrothed, and six weeks after that she was married and on her way to Winterfell.

Winterfell was as welcome a home to come back to tonight as it had been then.

Tollett drove her in silence, which for once she was glad of. Her head was too full of business to make any more polite conversation. That poor Mrs. Black, all out of work and with a baby to feed. There must be something to be done to help her, and all the women like her…

It wasn’t until Sansa entered the hall and saw the book where she’d left it on the table that she remembered she’d been on her way to see Jon, before the audiences had interrupted her plans. Had he wondered why she hadn’t come? Had he worried?

Darkness had fallen over the course of the drive, evening fading slowly into night. Jon was ill; with any mercy, he’d be getting some much-needed rest. Yet Sansa was unable to stop herself from pushing open his door on her way to her own room.

He might have been awake, but only barely. His eyes were mostly closed, but he acknowledged her entry with a noise that was not quite a greeting.

“Sorry to disturb you,” she murmured.

“I’m glad,” he whispered, although what he was glad of he did not specify. He might have been more asleep than she’d taken him for.

“I wanted to-- check in, I suppose, and say good night.” Sansa paused. Ought she to say good night and take her leave? Then why had she come?

“We missed our afternoon,” Jon said.

She smiled sadly. “Yes. We’ll make it up tomorrow.”

“Mmm.” He nodded against his pillow. “Did the audiences…?”

“Everything went well,” she reassured him. “Nothing at all to worry about.”

Jon sighed raggedly. “Good. Good.”

“Good night, Jon. Rest well.” Sansa pulled the door toward her, letting a sliver of light in from the hall.

“Sansa,” he said, a low pull to his voice that reminded her how he’d said her name in his delirium, that first night of his illness. “Sansa, you look…” He shook his head, closed his eyes at last. “Good night.”

A long moment passed. Jon neither spoke, nor looked in her direction. Feeling both alone yet curiously surveilled, Sansa slipped into the hall and eased the door closed behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your patience! This chapter gave me a little trouble, deciding what the smallfolk would have to talk about. Jon isn't here much, but it was necessary for my overall plan to have a chapter like this. 
> 
> There were some comments last time where people were worried I was going to kill Jon. Rest assured I would **not** do that to you. I promised a happy ending, and there **will** be one.


	11. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An important letter comes from the capital, leading Jon to tell Sansa some information she finds surprising.

The morning after the audiences was a slow one for correspondence; all urgent estate business had been brought to the hall. In fact, there was only one letter. A letter of great significance, as it transpired.

Sansa’s stomach turned over, and the page slipped from between her fingers and fluttered to the desk. She willed her heart to stop pounding. It was surprising, she’d allow, but it oughtn’t have been. That it hadn’t happened sooner was more of a surprise, really, given her husband’s position.

That didn’t mean she knew what to do about it.

With trembling hands, Sansa picked up the letter, refolded it, and slid it back into its envelope. This was a matter for discussion, and there was only one person she could discuss it with. He wasn’t meant to be burdened, just now, but there was nothing for it. Jon would need to be consulted. 

Queen Daenerys was  _ his  _ aunt, after all.

She waved politely to the servants she passed, but did not greet them further, not trusting herself to speak. Pushing open his door, she was dismayed to find Jon asleep. Should she-- no, she was being silly. He was looking better, but still could ill afford to be shaken from his rest to attend her. Her anxiety did not make this an emergency worth jeopardizing his recovery. The matter could wait until he woke.

Sansa folded herself into the now-familiar chair in his chamber, the one that had been put there for her sake, and waited.

Once, it would have been unimaginable that she might feel so tense and fall asleep. But years had passed since she’d had the luxury of comfort. The exhaustion of living in King’s Landing had utterly eroded the division between terror and rest, and she could now drop into sleep at any time.

This had been fortunate, during the war, when she couldn’t count on a safe place to rest. But it was unfortunate now, for it meant she was vulnerable once again to the nightmares that often plagued her.

In this one, Ramsay Bolton’s hounds chased her while Cersei Lannister watched and Joffrey laughed. It wasn’t possible, Joff was dead before she ever met Ramsay, but there wasn’t a chance to interrogate it, not while she had to run from the hounds.

“ _ Sansa _ ,” a distant voice called.

Sansa tripped over a root, or maybe it was a hand that had grasped her ankle. “No, no,” she begged, pulling her leg back, her dress tearing.

“ _ Sansa _ ,” the voice came again, more sharply.

“Please,” she said, scrambling back to her feet as the hounds growled menacingly. “Please let me go.”

“ **_Sansa. Sansa!_ ** ” 

She woke, heart pounding, to urgent tones she only then recognized as her husband’s.

“Oh,” she said, feeling small in voice and person. “Did I disturb you? I’m sorry for it.” She put a hand to her head. She felt even more out of sorts than she usually did after one of her dreams. “I had not meant to fall asleep.”

Jon was frowning at her. “Never mind that,” he said impatiently. “Are you all right?”

Well, no. She was not. But it was nothing he was likely to be able to fix, as she had not managed it so far. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him, with his gaze so intent on her. “As I ever was,” she said instead.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t need to smile and pretend.”

Sansa looked down at her feet, feeling her cheeks color. “I don’t know how else to go forward,” she confessed.

Jon reached over and laid a hand atop hers on the arm of the chair. “I get them, too,” he said. “Since… since everything.”

When she looked up, his jaw was tense, but his eyes still looked kind. 

She turned her hand over to take his fingers in hers.

He gave them a gentle squeeze before disentangling. “My scar. I’m sure you’ve noticed.” He indicated his face, where the scar cut through his right eyebrow. “It was a bad wound. I was lucky to keep the eye. And my life, the doctors said.” His mouth thinned. “It didn’t feel very lucky, to be alive by a hair’s breadth when all my men were dead.”

Sansa’s chest ached. “I’m sure they’d not begrudge you,” she started, but hesitated.

“No,” he agreed sadly. “They wouldn’t.” He shook his head. “I dream of them. Some of it’s things I saw, some of it’s things I couldn’t have seen. Horrible things.” Jon looked back to her face, his grey eyes canny. “But you know about that, don’t you?”

She nodded, her mouth dry.

“It was a bad time,” he continued. “Everyone left living has known loss and horrors. But we’ve endured. I hope you know you’re safe now. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I do,” she said. “Or I want to.”  _ No one can keep anyone safe, _ she wanted to say, but she didn’t know how to share what she’d learned of protection without making him feel she was rejecting his offer.

Sansa didn’t want to reject anything he was willing to give her. She did feel safe with him, mostly.

“What’s that in your lap?” he asked.

She looked down at her skirts where, still clutched in one hand, was the letter. 

Jon’s mouth tightened at the sight of the royal seal on the envelope when she held it up.

“We’ve been summoned to court,” she said.

Jon took the letter from her and read it, with quick, grim eyes. He stifled a cough or two, which she realised were the first of their kind since her arrival. “I’ll have to write and tell her I’m not able,” he said finally. “I don’t think there’s any question of it.”

Sansa’s lips parted. “I could… go in your stead,” she suggested.

His eyes on her were severe. “I’d not ask that of you,” he said, in a voice that told her he’d noticed her reluctance to leave Winterfell. “It oughtn’t be necessary. My serious illness should get us both a pass, this time.”

Relief consumed her. She was glad to be sitting down.

“No one would expect a man’s wife to travel from his side at such a time,” he continued. “Especially not one so newly wed.”

Sansa felt her cheeks pinkening once more. They did not have a habit of discussing their marriage, or lack thereof. But here he was, mentioning it like a private joke she could only hope was not at her expense.

Her mind raced to find something else to think of. It caught on an earlier remark, and she found herself asking “This time?”

Jon nodded glumly, smothering another cough. “Supposing I survive, which seems likely, another summons will come. You need not attend it, but I’ll have to go.”

Sansa wanted to offer to accompany him, but she didn’t want to be forward. The reason he was so often away might be that he had no desire for her company. It wouldn’t do to spoil that, simply because he’d been kind to her this week.

“Your aunt will find other occupations soon enough,” she tried instead. “Young queens receive many interested suitors, I’m told. With a family of her own, she’ll leave you more to your devices.”

A darkness came over his face. “I very much doubt it.”

She nearly laughed, but something about his expression held her back. “What do you mean?”

Jon fixed her with his gaze. “My aunt is barren.”

Sansa felt dizzy.

“It’s a matter of the strictest confidence, but I… honestly, Sansa, I thought you knew.” He looked stricken by more than a cough.

“You-- we--” Sansa took a steadying breath. “You’re the heir presumptive. But… no one will come along to supplant you.” 

Jon nodded seriously. “I am my aunt’s only living relative, and likely to remain so.”

Her heart sped up in her chest. “So, one day, you will… or your heirs will… not just Winterfell, but all of it.”

“I’m so sorry, Sansa,” he said. “If I’d known she hadn’t told you, I would have. Before that blasted ceremony, when you could have called it off.”

She felt numb. “I’m going to be Queen of Westeros.” What a cruel joke, to make true her deepest childhood wishes, in a way she’d never have wanted.

“I thought that was why you’d accepted the proposal,” he muttered, closing his eyes miserably. “I thought she’d promised you--”

“Winterfell,” Sansa said. “The Queen promised Winterfell, to me and my heirs. She never mentioned anything about-- about all that.”

“I’d never have forced you into such an unequal bargain,” Jon said unhappily.

“I know,” she said.

“We could have it annulled--” 

Sansa shook her head. “Let’s not talk about that, just now.” She didn’t want to go back to being vulnerable and unmarried. She didn’t want to leave Jon. But… “Let’s focus our efforts on your recovery, and we can discuss the-- the rest of it-- later. Please.”

He still looked unhappy, but he acquiesced, much to her relief. “All right,” he said, with a heavy weariness in his eyes.

Sansa smiled shakily. A truce, then, like so much of married life had turned out to be. “I ought to go write the Queen. I think it will sound better coming from me, if the doctor has forbidden you to work.” Which was true, she reminded herself. One of so few things that was not, in part or in all, a lie.

“All right,” he said again.

He watched, his face an unreadable mask, as she pulled her legs beneath her and stood in as graceful and dignified a way as was possible when her limbs felt like jelly from shock. But just as she turned to go, he called out her name one last time. 

“Sansa?”

She twisted toward him, almost without thinking of it. “Yes?”

“I’ve forgotten to thank you,” he said.

She found her mouth pursing with concern. “Whatever for?” She’d thought his temperature had come down; she hoped the fever hadn’t addled his brain.

But he didn’t look confused, only serious and purposeful. “The flowers.”

Atop the mantel, in a china vase that had belonged to her mother, a bouquet of yellow jonquils glowed cheerily down at them. One small bright spot of beauty in his otherwise bleak room.

“They were my apology,” she said, “for yesterday. You like them?”

“Very much,” he smiled. It was warm like the coming of spring.

He didn’t smile much, her husband. Perhaps he saved them back, to keep them pure.

“Like the story,” he said. “I liked that very much.”

Sansa smiled back. “I did, too.” She reached out, hesitantly, but not as hesitantly as she might have, to touch his hand. “I have correspondence to write, and you ought to rest. But… tomorrow?”

Jon nodded. “Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Long time, no see. I apologize for the wait-- I've been having some health issues that have made it hard to write. But it was not and is not my intention to quit this without first coming to the promised happy ending portion!
> 
> I got to a lot of points in my outline in this chapter (more than I planned to, because I got carried away), so I'm not entirely sure what the next one will look like or when it will be here. But I'll be back when I can!

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Anne Sexton's poem Small Wire.


End file.
